Awakened
by pennandink
Summary: The three times Jess has a nightmare and the one time Nick does.


The first comes after a night of horror movies and cheap beer. Jess has never been a huge fan of the genre—not since her father took her to see a double feature at the age of ten: _The Exorcist_ and _Rosemary's Baby_. But with Schmidt away on business, Cece in the middle of a midnight photoshoot, and Winston on a date, she had little in the way of options. The horror movie marathon had been on Nick's (fairly empty) schedule for a week; he would not be moved.

He picks some of the strangest B-list horror films she's ever heard of: _The Gingerdead Man, They Live, Killer Klowns from Outer Space._ For hours on end, the loft is engulfed with sounds of high-pitched screams, evil laughter, and violent deaths. Each time a wound gushes blood or a zombie catches his prey Jess slides further beneath her quilt and deeper into the couch. Her mind tells her to flee to her bedroom, crank up her music, and finish Cece's birthday present, but her body is rooted to its place. Perhaps it's the sight of Nick's unrestrained smile or the sound of his soft laughter. She should be concerned at his glee as he watches death after death, but she's not. She finds it charming to see him free of his anger and frustration. So she stays, and when the final credits roll, she knows it's going to be a long, sleepless night.

The dream is a flash of clown makeup and funhouse mirrors. She's running—fast, but not fast enough. The clown is close behind, his laughter chilling, his puffy white suit glowing in the darkness of her mind. She stumbles, falls, and is too slow to regain her footing. He's on her, his laughter filling her ears, her entire being, until he plunges a knife in her back and—

"Whoa, whoa, Jess, wake up!" There's a hand shaking her shoulder—firm, but not rough. Safe.

She opens her eyes to see Nick in the dim light of her bedroom, his face a mixture of concern and annoyance. She draws in a deep breath, as if testing her lungs to see if they are still functioning. They are, and her shoulder muscles begin to relax.

"Are you okay?" His gruff voice, laced with sleep, sounds different in her darkened bedroom. Without warning, she shivers and draws her sheets over her chest. "You were kinda yelling."

She nods without a word, afraid that if she speaks something may spill from her lips. Something she herself doesn't yet know or understand. Finally, she manages a weak, "Sorry."

He hesitates before shrugging. A smirk cracks his face. "Told you you were a chicken."

* * *

The second comes much later. Something has bubbled between them: palpable yet desperate to be ignored. Only she can't deny her attraction much longer. He's like a tornado, dangerous, offering little time to get to safety. (And maybe she doesn't want to.)

The dream has no precursor as with the horror films. This one comes on its own accord.

She's fallen asleep to the latest football game in an attempt to better understand the guy's fascination yet again. Her head is inches from Nick's thigh. (At some point, she laid down, sprawled out in an undignified fashion, her fuzzy bunny slippers dangling from her feet.) It's almost as if she can feel him through her sleep, and her heart picks up its pace.

There's fire this time. She can feel it hot against her skin, see it moving towards her in waves. It's bright orange, and she lifts her arm to shield her eyes. The flames lick her toes yet the shock of the pain only registers in her heart. Her heart, hot and thumping, squeezes hard, and she forgets how to breathe. One word registers. It courses through her in time with her beating heart. And it's terrifying.

 _Nick._

She wakes with a start, a gasp clenching her throat. She's vaguely aware of the cold sweat dripping down her back as she sits up and releases a heavy sigh.

"You okay, Jess?" Nick leans forward in an attempt to catch her eye. She studiously avoids him.

It's the same question as the first time, only this time he sounds truly concerned. It makes the memory and the burn of the nightmare flare all over again. Jess holds her hand against her heart.

When he lays his hand on her shoulder, her skin ignites, and it's all she can do to not turn around and throw herself into his arms. (Only the nightmare would get worse if she entertained her wildest dreams, she's sure of that.)

"I—" She wants to be honest and tell him she dreamt a fire— _his_ fire—caught her aflame. But she doesn't. That's too risky. "Just a bad dream," she says when the silence has lasted too long.

A wry look crosses his face. "Clowns again?"

She forces a quick, harsh laughter. "Yeah…clowns."

* * *

Her final dream comes after they've kissed, she's sure in her heart of hearts he's the only one who can make her whole. Things are good, healthy even. The initial awkward transition from friends to lovers to something more has passed. She's happy. He's happy. It's bliss.

She falls asleep on his shoulder as the plane headed for Chicago glides through the air. He is warmth and comfort in the freezing cabin, and it's all she can do to not curl on her side and breathe in his scent. Damn limited leg room!

The dream is short, simple, and inspired by her latest rewatch of _Lost._ The plane goes down in a graceful spin, careening toward the tan earth without noise. Jess is frozen to her seat; Nick is yelling something incomprehensible in her ear. All she can think about is the time they wasted and how much it will hurt when the plane finally nosedives.

She tears herself awake this time, careful to keep her composure, though her hands are a sweaty mess and her heart is racing. Nick is oblivious. (His attention had been caught by the on-flight gaming system before they even found their seats.) She lets her gaze trace his profile, the strong jaw and coarse stubble, the fan of his eyelashes on his cheekbones. A flutter grabs her chest, and she sighs, snuggling closer. He shifts, but doesn't pull away. A thought of the plane crashing flits through her mind once more, but she pushes it away.

Even if the plane were to go down, at least she would descend with the man she loves.

* * *

Nick is caught in the midst of a battle with the flu when his dream hits. (He blamed Jess for bringing the sickness back to the loft. What with her around kids so often, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He only wished the flu would have picked Schmidt over him.) He's not accustomed to nightmares. A fascination with horror films and his rocky childhood left little time for his mind to entertain terrifying dreams. So when a dream brings him upright, sweat drenched, and blurry-eyed, he's more than a little unnerved.

The door bursts open, and Jess is standing in the doorframe, clothed in her stupid, endearing polka dot pajamas. Her hair is mussed from sleep and her glasses askew, but he's never seen a more welcome sight.

"Are you okay? I heard you yell from across the hall."

He's quick to shove her concern away as she crosses the floor to the side of his bed. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just payback for the time with the clowns."

She sits down, presses her cool hand to his forehead, and sucks in a sharp breath. "You're burning up."

He shrugs off her touch and leans away. "All 'cause of you, babe." She shouldn't see him like this, not after what he'd just witnessed in his dream.

"What happened? What's wrong? Come on, you can tell me." She slips her fingers into the palm of his hand and presses. "It's me, Nick."

He lets go of a gruff sigh and looks away. "I lost you," he says, annoyed at how...soft he sounds. "I dreamt I lost you."

Jess is silent before she lowers her head to his chest. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay right here."

Nick is sure she can hear the thumping of his heart through his nightshirt, but in that moment, he doesn't care.


End file.
